


Midas

by 11oyd



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Knight Bucky, M/M, Magic, Panic Attacks, Prince Steve, Steve POV, eventually post-serum steve, forced bed sharing, hurt/comfot, pre-serum steve, royal steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11oyd/pseuds/11oyd
Summary: All Steve wants as crown prince is to join the fighting at the front, to be a hero for his people -- but of course it's not allowed, even if he actually could manage to lift a sword or pull back a bowstring. Weak little Steve, safe little Steve. Protect poor Steve.And then a one-armed knight named Bucky joins his guard.





	1. a fight

**Author's Note:**

> i kind of know where this is going, but on the other hand things are still very up in the air and malleable, so if you send me an ask on my [tumblr](http://paperweave.tumblr.com/) or leave a comment asking for something specific, there's a good chance it might find its way into the fic. i love prompts.
> 
> also this isn't meant to be taken too seriously. i'm bad at history, i just like to write ppl struggling to take their armor off to have fast sex. if there is a huge inaccuracy in this that u wanna point out though, feel free!
> 
> tags will be added as they occur so stay on the look-out.

"He's disabled," says Lord Pierce, looking at the kneeling man in the middle of the chamber room.

" _Uncle_ ," says Steve. "Please." He can feel a hot flush already on his face, and he shifts in the uncomfortable throne he occupies, keeping his hands on each golden armrest. The kneeling knight doesn't react, doesn't lift his head, doesn't acknowledge the missing limb in question. Pierce's initial consternation has tilted into disgust. "Fury?"

"I speak for Sir Barnes myself, Your Majesty," says Fury, stepping up and around the knight. "He was injured in the war attempts, but he's recovered well in the last two years. He's still able to fight among my best men and will protect you well."

"We can't have a crippled defending royalty," says Pierce hotly, shifting beside Steve. He's wearing a rich robe, one that might belong to Steve's own father if he looks closely enough - he's noticed his uncle donning more and more of his father's things since the king left to attend to the front troops, but no one's said anything and Steve can't bear to. His own shame is draped heavily around him, a cloak that he never takes off. At least his uncle has a reason he's not fighting, as someone must protect the inner kingdom. Steve isn't even trusted enough to do that.

"Is this the best you have for us, Fury?" Steve's cousin is leaning against the back wall, dressed in the rich colors of Pierce's household, next to Steve's current guard, Sam. Brock lifts his eyebrows as everyone looks to him, indolent. "Honestly, I'm simply concerned that our master trainer doesn't seem to value Cousin Steve's safety enough. Assassinate threats abounding and all." Steve can see Sam trying not to roll his eyes.

The idea that Brock somehow is genuine is laughable - and Steve would give anything to be able to say, _I can handle my own threats_ , and mean it. His bad ear, bad eyes, his weak lungs and limp from the ache in his back; he's never even been able to draw back a bowstring properly, much less wield a sword. If someone wanted him dead, they needn't bother with an assassin: they could simply wait for a cold spell.

This crippled is at least better than what Steve can offer, despite his own best attempts.

"Most of our men are at the front," says Fury. He looks directly at Steve. "They're dying by the thousands, despite your father's strategies."

"Are you calling King Joseph a failure?" hisses Pierce, but Steve holds up a pale hand, leaning forward to hear Fury.

"I would not allow you to live in danger, Your Highness," says Fury. "If I thought Barnes couldn't handle this, he would not be in this room right now. But he has worked hard to recover, and I believe you would be in safe hands with him." Then a slight smile curls his mouth. "Hand, that is."

Steve finds himself smiling in response and then finally looks behind Fury to fully examine the man still kneeling with one knee down and his other leg planted firmly. His head is lowered respectfully, his dark hair tied back in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck with a few tendrils escaping. His left sleeve is tied into a knot and then tucked into his belt, and though Steve can't tell for sure, he thinks his arm must end somewhere very close to the man's shoulder. Yet despite this, he looks strong and sturdy, muscled in a way that Steve can never hope to become. He looks like it would take ten men to get through him, even one-handed.

Steve opens his mouth -

"I will not have it," cuts in Pierce. His thick jowls quiver with anger, pulling himself upright as Steve turns to look at him. "Not for my nephew. If something happens to him, there will be no hope for us in this fight against the Germans; he is the only line of succession this kingdom has, and Joseph cannot defend the front and fight internal enemies vying for the throne at the same time -"

"He has you, Uncle," says Steve quietly. "If I die, it goes to you."

Pierce stares at him, his mouth opening and closing, and then Steve turns to look back at the knight.

"Let's end this quarrel," he says. "If we want to know if he is worthy to be in my guard, then let's see him fight. Who can prove this man's worth?" He looks around with a purposely serene expression - let his late beloved mother know that Steve Rogers has learned to mask his anger at long last - and then lets his eyes land on who he wants. "Ah, my cousin. Of course. Surely you are willing to prove yourself?"

Instantly, Brock straightens off the wall and then sneers. "I've already proven myself; it is Sir Barnes who must fight for his honor. After all, he is the one who let the enemy take his arm."

Finally, finally Barnes stands, his movements smooth and graceful from kneeling to erect, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. His expression is blank, but when he meets Steve's curious gaze, there is something alive in his eyes, and Steve thinks that though he might have lost an arm, at least he's seen the enemy face to face, which Brock never will. He's looked another man in the eyes as he split his insides through with steel, he's felt his own body ripped from him, seen his own blood. This is a face that's seen all Steve's ever yearned for and more, lost the unthinkable, and still he fights. Barnes nods once at him, curt, and Steve's lips crook up just barely.

Then Barnes turns towards Brock and unsheathes his sword. A metallic sound whistles through the air, and he settles into a fighting stance with ease, looking at Brock calmly.

Brock swallows, licking his lips fast.

Steve's seen his older cousin fight before many times - in the training yard, with other boys his own age, and then when there were still tournaments around. Brock was good, holding his own against men larger than him and faster than him, but Barnes has seen combat. He's seen war.

He's a soldier.

Steve realizes he's sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, and forces himself to sit back a little. Pierce regards him sideways, like he might say something, but stays silent. Fury has come to stand next to Steve, watching the proceeds with a closed expression.

Steve lifts his chin. "Sirs, this is to defeat, not death, whether verbal or because you are declared unable to fight any longer. I will call it."

Brock sets his jaw, takes his sword from the squire holding it out for him. He swings it once, loosely, checking the grip before settling across from Barnes and watching him carefully. Steve feels something rise in him, a thirst that has nothing to do with water and everything to do with blood; he leans forward again.

"Begin," he says.

At first: nothing.

Then: Brock makes the first move, swinging out fast and hard, and Barnes dodges it neatly. There's a second pause where Brock waits to see if he will retaliate and when he doesn't, he swings again, then sets into a fast blur of motions. His sword comes down in every way, but Barnes's always seems ready to meet it, somehow predicting where Brock will be just as it comes - Steve's breath catches as Brock brings his sword up high and then down right on top of Barnes' and they're locked together for a moment in a show of brute strength before Brock backs off again.

He almost forgets that Barnes only has one arm. It doesn't seem to matter in the way he blocks and parries, doesn't seem to impact his balance at all, and it seems like he's content to dodge forever before he feints to one side and brings his sword to the other and slices a long line up the side of Brock's doublet.

It doesn't break skin, but everyone around makes a small noise at this first bit of contact, Fury's expression cracking barely as his eyes tighten at the edges. Steve can't take his eyes off the fight. He feels breathless with it, entranced by the patterns, the way Barnes moves. Sweat drips off both men, and even Barnes starts to breath harder as it stretches on.

"Imagine if he had lost the right arm," murmurs Steve, almost more to himself than anything. It seems impossible. That arm, that sword, all of it seems like part of who Barnes is, irreplaceable. He moves like he was born with steel in his veins, thrumming inside of him. Even if he lost now, Steve would still have to have him.

And then - Brock stumbles. He catches himself quickly, spinning to compensate, but Barnes has the upper hand now. He steps in at last on the offensive and brutally slashes at Brock. There's no hesitation now, nothing stopping him. His face is a stone, unbreakable as he beats down at Brock's defense. Steve's heart is racing like he's the one fighting, his eyes shining.

"Come on, come on," he mutters to himself, clenching the edge of the throne. This throne was meant to hold someone of much greater weight and strength than he - it was meant to hold a warrior like Barnes. There's such jealous and admiration in him, clawing for attention, but as Barnes lands another blow on Brock, the flat of his sword thwacking his arm, the admiration begins to win out.

Sam comes up beside him, making appreciative noises, murmuring soft comments about Barnes's style - and then Barnes moves like lightning, kicking Brock's feet out from him, hitting him in the sides with the flat of his swords hard even as he falls, and then the tip of his sword is digging into Brock's throat and his chest is heaving and his hair has completely fallen out of its hold. He looks up at Steve through the curtain of his hair, face shining with sweat, his eyes intense as they meet Steve's, and he says, "Your Majesty."

Steve's on his feet before he even realizes it, staring at Barnes with bright eyes, stepping down off the raised platform the thrones rest on.

"It's done," he says.

Immediately Barnes lowers his sword and then steps towards Steve, his gaze still locked on him. In the background, Brock coughs and rolls over, trying not to retch.

"I'm satisfied," says Steve. "If anyone has any complaints, they can come to me. Fury, I approve of this choice."

"I would swear fealty to Your Highness if I may," says Barnes, and bows low.

"You may."

Barnes drops to his knee again, then looks up at Steve through his hair. "I will gladly give my life for yours, Highness. I vow on my own honor and that of my family that I will taste steel before any harm can come to you. I will keep all your secrets, heed all your wishes, and obey you to the last. Do you accept my fealty?"

"I accept," says Steve, and comes down the steps fully. He takes Barnes own sword from him, struggling not to show the strain it takes, and rests the blade lightly on each of Barnes' shoulders. "Rise, guard."

Barnes rises, towering over him this close to him. The way he looks at Steve makes him feel as equally tall, if not taller. "I will wait in the hall for you, Majesty?"

"Yes," agrees Steve, and then turns. He looks first to Pierce, then to Brock who is determinedly staring at the ground with his jaw locked. "Uncle? You are satisfied?"

"I am only concerned for your safety," say Pierce, getting up heavily from his seat and coming down the stairs. "If this is your choice, I trust your wisdom, Prince." His eyes flicker to Brock, expression hardening slightly, and then he gives an unpleasant smile. "I must have Brock work harder on his footwork, next time I suppose. Let's hope nothing happens to the other arm."

Everyone's trickling out, one by one, and Steve suddenly feels exhausted. This was never meant to be such an ordeal.

Sam approaches, trying not to smile at him. "Shame on you, Steve," he says in a low voice, too quiet for anyone else to hear as they leave. "You didn't even try to hide how much you enjoyed watching your cousin get his ass kicked."

Steve shrugs with one shoulder, then grins. "Like you didn't enjoy it just as much."

"Want me to stay on guard?"

"Come by later. I want to talk to him for a minute."

Sam nods, passing by, and Fury is close behind.

"I hope no offense was taken in challenging him," Steve says. "I trust your judgement, Fury. You have always been my father's choice as master trainer, you know that."

"It is no matter," says Fury. He's smiling as well, just a curled little thing that would almost be called smug if Steve didn't know better. Then his eyes darken. "You need a good guard, Prince Steve. There are far more enemies around you than ever before. I'd stay alert, if I were you."

Steve frowns, and the gratified feeling of watching Brock lose is somewhat quenched by this grim reminder of the danger he lives in. Anyone might be against him - even Fury, for that matter. It's disheartening.

"Oh, and Your Majesty?" says Fury, turning around almost as an afterthought. "What you said during the fight about Barnes' right arm - I thought you might be interested to know that before he lost it, he was lefthanded to begin with."


	2. a proposition

Barnes follows him silently through the empty halls, half a step behind and to the left like he somehow knows that Steve's good ear is on that side. It used to be much more crowded before the war started but it's been nearly seven years now and things are cold and hardened. Steve faintly remembers visiting nobles from other countries traipsing in and out constantly, but there's none of that now. It's barren. His room feels farther than usual from the chamber room, their footsteps echoing in the silence, and when they reach his wing, he hesitates only a moment before he lets Barnes in after him.

"This is where I spend the majority of my time, which means you will too," he says, turning around to look at Barnes once they're both in the middle of the room. "This, or the library, or the stables."

"You like to ride?"

Steve smiles wryly. "You don't have to be strong to stay on a horse's back. In fact, I think they like me more than some of the other riders; I can go ages without working up a lather. They barely seem to notice me up there."

Barnes lets his gaze roam around, idly walking from one side of the room to the other. He takes in the heavy curtains around the bed, the rich mahogany furniture, the gold embossed on every handle. He touches the wall next to a painting of Steve's mother that Steve made, thick oils that shine almost lifelike when Steve holds the candle just right by it. He wonders if the mourning in it is as obvious to Barnes as it is to him. Barnes' expression gives nothing away as he looks back to Steve. "You did this?"

"Yes," says Steve. Guards often last a lifetime, or until the knight is incapable of fighting any longer. His last one died from failure of the heart, dropping in the training yard without a warning just a week prior. Now here is this complete stranger meant to follow Steve everywhere, listen to all his conversations, watch him in every circumstance. It shouldn't be strange to someone born into royalty, but somehow it still makes his skin itch. "Do you draw?"

"I'm more of the… physical talents." Here in the darker room, Barnes' eyes appear nearly black, and his smile is more sharp. "As you saw."

"I saw," says Steve. "You're very impressive, Sir Barnes."

"Please," says Barnes, stepping back towards Steve. Somehow the bed has come in between them, and they're looking at each other through the open curtains. "Call me Bucky. It is my preferred name."

Steve's mouth is suddenly dry. "Bucky? Unusual."

"James Buchanan Barnes," says Bucky. He tilts his head to the side slightly, exposing the tanned line of his throat underneath. "My father was James as well - it got confusing. Of course, Your Majesty is welcome to call me whatever he pleases." There's something about the way Bucky is standing, the way his eyes linger on Steve's face. It feels like he's missing something, and then suddenly Bucky's eyes drop to the bed between them and then back up. "Fighting is not the only physical talent I possess, Highness."

A flash of panic lights through Steve like he is full of hot oil, his eyes darting all around the room wildly before landing on Bucky again. "Ah," he says, then wets his lips. "You - you may call me Steve, if you wish. Sam does."

"Steve," says Bucky, and smiles again. His name feels dirty said like that, here, over his bed. That smile seems dirty. The way his throat is so bare. The way his mouth is so red.

"Ah, Bucky?" he says, and feels his eyes widen as Bucky comes even closer to the bed, his hand coming down to rest on the dark velvet. The tips of his fingers press down into the purple cloth. "What are you -"

"I am happy to be of service to the throne in any way," says Bucky.

Steve stares at him, blinking rapidly, and the silence climbs on as Bucky just smiles at him, content. Like he didn't just offer himself up to Steve. For sex. For sex with Steve on his bed that he's had since he was a child. Now he can't stop staring at the blue of his eyes and the cut of his jaw and the stretch of his tunic over his shoulders and just for one brief second Steve thinks about saying yes. It's such a small consideration, but he feels like hell for it. "Sir Barnes," he says. "I think you are… misled on what I ask of my guards. Do you think I - that I - with _Sam_? As well?"

"Would you like me to kneel again?" Bucky's smile is lopsided now.

The question makes Steve inhale sharply. "I would _never_ take advantage of someone in a position of inferiority to me," he says, standing as tall as he can. His eyes blaze. "This is not the sort of service I ask of my men, and if you'll kindly tell me who told you this is expected -"

"Please," says Bucky, holding up a hand and moving away from the bed. He ducks his head, but when he lifts it again he doesn't look ashamed or embarrassed, only amused. "I had the wrong idea. Forgive me, Highness."

"The wrong idea -" sputters Steve, his heart still thumping hard against his chest. He's aware there's a tightness to his pants that wasn't there before, battling with his indignant righteousness, and fiercely wills it away. Bucky kneeling. Bucky on the bed. _No._ He won't allow it.

"Has no one truly offered before?" asks Bucky, now thoughtful. "You are nearly a man, are you not?"

"This summer."

Bucky nods like he knew that already. "Many men take partners far earlier than that. I'm… surprised this hasn't happened before. Warming a prince's bed is a great honor."

"I don't want people in my bed for _honor_ ," he replies through gritted teeth, and now it makes sense. For a second he had thought it might be - he thought - and he's aware of his tiny stature, frail bird bones, pale skin, the stubbornness that radiates off him. He'd almost forgotten about the crown permanently attached to his name.

"Men have done more for less," shrugs Bucky. "There are needs. And between men there be no fear of bastards. Unless you're not attracted to men?"

"I - I'm attracted - it doesn't _matter_ , because there will be no bedsharing between us," says Steve haltingly. "Of any kind." He turns his head to the side and takes a deep breath before adding, "I don't need a bed servant as well as a guard. I didn't ask for that." His shoulders tighten, hunching in slightly. It's not the first time someone's propositioned him, but it's the first time it's so blatantly because of who he is and the position he holds.

"Would you like me to leave?" asks Bucky quietly. The amusement has finally left his voice.

"It's not necessary." He takes a moment to recover from the surprise - perhaps someone really has deceived Bucky into thinking this is habitual for Steve, or perhaps he merely thought it would secure his position even further - regardless, there is something about it that feels matter of fact. Like Bucky had simply asked to straighten Steve's doublet for him. He thinks of Fury, _More enemies around you than ever before_ , and tries to reign in the accompanying paranoia.

"You didn't thank me for the opportunity I gave you earlier to prove yourself," says Steve.

"My apologies, Your Majesty."

"No, I - I meant, you didn't take the chance to give a long-winded speech about yourself," he says. "You didn't play into the games of politics. My uncle might have said you missed the real opportunity then."

Bucky's eyes linger on him again, then fall away as a half-smile touches his lips. "I'm not a fan of speeches," he says. "I prefer action. I thought you might be the same."

"You're right," says Steve, turning to the table. He pours himself a glass of wine and then walks with it to the window, looking out at through the frosted glass at the lights blurred below. He can't see that far. This feels more natural - fighting, he can talk about. "I would honestly give anything not to have to do all the formalities, the pointless traditions, the kneeling and the bowing and the dances. It all just seems like such a waste to me. So many resources used on useless things here, when they could be used to help men that are really fighting." He can't even try to hide the wistful note in his voice and instead takes a sip of the wine.

"You really think all the traditions are pointless?" asks Bucky. "What about the New Year's feast, coming soon?"

"Ah," he says, turning around. "How silly of me. I forgot how much we need to drink barrels of mead and eat half our livestock to remind ourselves time is passing. I love to celebrate yet another year of losing this god forsaken war."

Bucky looks like he's trying not to smile for a moment, his eyes warm, and then suddenly he sombers. "Do you really wish to be fighting?"

"Yes," says Steve instantly. "Yes, I want to. I want to serve my country, the way every other man is serving for me right now. You think I want -" he gestures broadly to the wealth surrounding him, the fire spitting in the hearth, the food on the table despite the fact that he just ate dinner, to Bucky himself. "I'd give it all up in a heartbeat if it meant I could _do something,_ if I could actually help people for once -"

"You are helping," says Bucky. "You cheer the men."

"I'm a dancing monkey for them," says Steve, his voice rich with contempt. "The maimed can look on my face at the New Year's feast and pretend everything's fine, the war is fine, it's all fine."

"Is that so wrong?" says Bucky quietly. "To pretend for a little bit?"

Steve sobers. "I don't pretend to know what it's really like. I can't know. But that doesn't change the fact that if I could, I'd be out there. I want this all to end. One man might make all the difference. I just wish to try."

"Your death on a battlefield will do just what your uncle said. He may be an arrogant prick -" Steve's eyes widen at the careless slander and then manages to school his expression again while Bucky goes on, "but he was right about that. You dying would mean the end of this war, and not in our favor."

Steve takes another few quick sips of wine - even that much is enough to get his head spinning sometimes. "It's no use talking about it regardless. I can't fight; everyone knows it. I'll never be able to do what you did in the chamber room."

Bucky has an odd smile on his face now, looking at Steve in a way he can't understand like he knows something Steve doesn't. "Ah," he says, "but why did I do it? That's the part that matters. That's where the _real_ worth lies." And then before Steve can ask him what he means, he nods his head respectfully and says, "I'm sure you would like to retire now, Prince Steve. If you need me, I will be outside watching the door," and exits the room.

Everything is still after he leaves and Steve can finally breathe again, his whole body alert like he's about to fight. Did that happen? _Did that happen?_ He does not know how he can face Bucky again in the morning after seeing that look in his eyes, that little smile. He wants to cringe at his own reaction, the fierce note in his voice. He should have stayed calm, _No thank you, I'm fine without, please do not ask again_ , and instead -

Steve takes a good long look at the bed, pictures the tips of Bucky's fingers pressing into the covers, and then quickly downs the rest of his wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment if u liked it!!! :) i love comments, they make my day.


	3. a telling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohoho an actual plot!

Steve brings Bucky down to the stables a few days later, having given him the tour of the inside castle the previous day. At first he can't stop glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, careful to keep each tone neutral and his body language distant - but slowly things feel like they're relaxing; it's almost like Bucky's forgotten what he said in Steve's bedroom, touching Steve's bed. Pretending it never happened loosens something in Steve's chest.

"It's nearly empty," observes Bucky now, letting his hand rest on one of the wooden beams of the long stablehouse. There's less than ten horses housed here, with half of them currently being walked outside, most of them either elderly or ill-tempered. Steve's favorite is a brown speckled mare who comes to the front of her stall to greet him.

He strokes her nose, her intelligent eyes warm on his as he steps up on his tiptoes to kiss her high on her forehead. "Most of them were needed for the efforts. If only you could have seen our castle in its prime; it was so different."

"It seems pretty nice now, too," says Bucky, and Steve is about to tell him he doesn't have to give artificial compliments when Bucky's eyes go to the closest horse and he says, "We only owned donkeys growing up. Two of them, one of them the sweetest animal you ever saw and one of them the thorniest son of a bitch to exist. Unfortunately, the sweetest one was also the laziest, so when things got tight, she was sold first." He looks at Steve with a sideways smile.

"What did your parents do?" asks Steve as he leans his back against a stall door, his curiosity open and genuine.

"Farmers," says Bucky, matching Steve's pose across from him. His long legs stretch out, and like this he seems strong and lean; it makes Steve's mouth water. There's no shame in him, but instead an almost fierce sense of pride. "They were, before."

"Before?"

"They're gone now," he says.

"I hope they would have been proud of you."

"For this?" he asks, gesturing with his one arm. They stand in the middle of horse shit, old hay, and something musty, but Steve thinks Bucky might be encompassing something more with one sweep of his arm. "They would never have thought of this life for me. But yes, they would be proud to see me as a Kingsguard."

"They didn't imagine you being good enough to be a knight when you left to join the fighting?" asks Steve, but Bucky only answers him with a wry twist of his lips. The mare behind Steve nickers low and leans down to butt him gently in the shoulder with her head. "Would you like to go riding?"

"What's her name?"

"Amour," says Steve, looking up at her. She's got such dark eyes, staring back at him like she knows who he is, like she understands him without speaking. "And _you_ may ride," he turns to nod at the horse across from Amour, a rowdy gelding who tosses his head at the attention, and Steve's eyes are mischievous, "Fitz."

"Well, Highness, I don't like that look at all," says Bucky, lifting his eyebrows as he goes towards the other horse. "And this horse matches that expression."

"He's a good horse," protests Steve as he tries not to laugh and then Peggy bursts through the doors. She's got a wild look about her, dark hair flying out of its pins, not entirely uncommon for the lady but something's different about it this time; she grabs his arm as soon as she gets to him.

"Steve," she says, breathless, and then glances over to Bucky. "I need to speak you this instant. Alone."

His eyes are wide. "Okay."

"No," she says, digging her nails into his arm. " _Alone_." Her eyes skirt over to Bucky, watching her suspiciously, then back to Steve. "Please, Steve."

"Bucky's - fine," he says. "He's my new guard, with Sam. He replaced Llewyn."

"I have to stay with him, Lady," says Bucky. "For his own protection."

Peggy's eyes are intense on Steve's, communicating something he can't understand. "He can wait outside, can't he?"

"Sure," says Steve because he's seen that look before - if he doesn't start giving Peggy what she wants, he's going to get punched in the arm, hard. Peggy's hits always end up leaving a bruise. "Barnes, take the door."

"But, Highness," protests Bucky, and Steve cuts him a look. Bucky's expression goes tight for a second and then flattens out, jerking his head with a short nod. He walks out the stable doors and then Steve looks to Peggy, eyebrows raised.

"C'mon," says Peggy, tugging on his arm, and he follows bemused as she goes quickly to the back of the stables and then up a shadowed ladder to the hay loft. She climbs with her skirts held in one hand, taking the steps faster than he's able to so that she's already tucked away in the darkest corner by the time he arrives, out of breath.

"We haven't been up here since we were children," he says, crawling towards her. It's too short to stand even for him, surrounded by crushed hay and mouse droppings. The stableboys have been storing the hay in the empty stalls, which makes the loft a convenient hiding place. He wonders if the ring he lost at eight years old is somewhere up here, the one his mother scolded him for losing for weeks. Then he takes in Peggy's dark face and feels a quick pulse of awareness. "Peggy, what is it?"

"Lower your voice," she whispers. "Come closer."

For a second he absurdly thinks she might be here to kiss him in this secret, private place - they did that once or twice when they were younger, she was his first kiss, perhaps if a war was not going on they might have been married to each other - but when he gets closer he sees fear in her eyes. "Peggy?" he asks, hushed.

She takes his hand, gripping hard. "Steve, I have heard, I have…" She blinks once or twice. He hasn't seen her cry since she was eleven and fell off her horse, breaking her collarbone, but now her eyes look nearly wet. "I was hiding from the sewing mistress in the upper corridor of the east wing - behind the tapestry, you know…"

He shuffles closer. "You overheard something?"

"It was your uncle," she whispers, so quietly she might as well be mouthing the words. "He was talking to a man I don't know. He was speaking of… of your father, at the front. He said it will be over soon." Steve shakes his head, not understanding her great fear or the way her hand sweats against his. "He said _they're sending someone._ And then, Steve, he said you will be dead after the New Year's feast."

"What?" asks Steve, too loudly, his voice cracking, and she puts her free hand over his mouth instantly. He pulls back, freeing himself, and stares at her. "Peggy, is this a joke?"

"It's not a joke," she says. "I heard it all. He said your new guard wouldn't be able to protect you, that once you were gone he would be first in line, that he would end the war the right way. Steve, you've known all along he's a rotten human -"

"Rotten humans don't _plan assassinations,_ " he says, horrified. "He just - his own brother-in-law? His dead wife's brother? He - he loved my aunt, I know he did - he loves _me_ -"

Peggy's shaking her head, tears spilling now. She quickly wipes them away and takes in a deep breath to steady herself. "He might, but he loves Brock more. He would do anything to transfer the throne to his bloodline, I know he would."

"It's too easy," Steve insists. "If this were real, he wouldn't let someone just overhear him like that. Pierce would be more careful."

"He's cocky now," she says. "Who's here to fight him? All the men are fighting Germany, your father has been gone for almost a full year now and nothing's changed. And even if I'm wrong, can we take that risk? Just wait and see what happens?"

His face is pale in the darkness, his mouth set in a grim line. He remembers clearer than ever Fury's warning but he knows that he can trust Peggy. He can trust Sam. Bucky… He doesn't know. But Bucky fought Pierce's own son and won, he came with Fury's recommendation - he feels his head swim like he's had three glasses of wine. "I don't know, I don't know what to do. I can't just. What, you want me to just run away? I don't even know if this is real. Maybe you are mistaken…"

"I've grown up hearing his voice," she says. "I know who said it. But if you want proof, I'll help you."

"How would I?" He doesn't know, he doesn't know how any of this could be real, and four days ago he was telling Bucky he wanted to fight but now all he wants is to be safe again. His heart feels pitifully small in his chest. "Go through his things? Confront him outright?"

The tears are gone from Peggy's eyes; now she just looks determined. "If we do find something, you have to promise me you'll go, Steve. Don't fight him. Don't stand up to him like you always do." She grips his hand harder, glaring. "Promise me you'll run away this time."

He draws back. "It's a coward's choice, Peggy."

"It's not," she insists. "It's _smart._ If he's king, the country will be ruined." Then her eyes narrow. "Besides, if he's planning on killing your father as well, someone will have to go to the front to warn him. I know you have something against running away, but you must swear to me _you will go._ "

And they both know she's won now. Even if it means hating himself every step of the way, he cannot let his father die - he cannot let the men at the front lose their commander. He will not become an orphan, not when he is so clearly not ready to take the throne. All he wants is for someone else to take this burden from his hands, his shaking hands, his trembling heart, but this is his responsibility alone. "Did he say a timeline for when that would happen?"

She shakes her head.

"Then… then we must hurry. It might be any day." A wave of anxiety crashes into him, his lungs clenching up. If he doesn't focus, he'll have a breathing attack up here in the dust and loose hay. "We must get the proof tonight."

"Tonight," she agrees. "Your new guard. Will you bring him if it's true?"

He wants to trust him - wants to. But if this is true, that means anyone is suspect except for the ones he's truly certain of. "I won't," he says regretfully. "Sam, yes. But I can't risk it if he's one of Pierce's men undercover."

She sighs. "I'm so sorry, Steve. No one deserves this, least of all you."

"Yeah," he says, tightening his jaw. "But then, when has life ever been kind to me?"

 

* * *

 

It's not easy. Peggy and Steve comb through all of Pierce's papers while he's occupied with a young woman, Sam watching the door for them. They find maps and letters and notes for troop movements, but nothing convicting until suddenly -

"I found it," says Peggy quietly, coming away from a portrait of Steve's mother hanging on the wall, much like the one in Steve's room. She holds up a letter and when Steve takes it, he only scans it for a moment before glancing up, confused. "It's in code," she explains, taking it back. "I've seen it before." Her mouth twists with distaste. "Brock taught me when he was trying to woo me last spring."

"What does it say?" Already his chest is hurting again, his breath coming in fast.

"Says your father's death is coming when the Germans are due to arrive at the north shore with reinforcements in six weeks time. Without a commander," she reads, "the assault will overwhelm…" Her eyes widen and then her head snaps up. "The plan is for us to lose the war, Steve, because of your father's death. And when everyone's struggling afterward, Pierce will be able to swoop in as savior."

"And I'll be _dead_ ," says Steve, disgusted. "And you…"

"Will probably be married to Lord Brock," says Peggy in equal disgust. "Bearing his children."

There's a silence where they both take this in.

"When… when do I go?" he asks finally.

"The feast's in ten days," she says. "You must leave before, but you need time to gather supplies. Sam is ready?"

"Sam's ready," he says.

"Don't act suspicious," she says. "Don't draw attention. You must run as fast as you can the first few days so that they don't catch you. Once you're far enough out, it'll be about stealth and not attracting anyone's notice. They will kill you if they catch you out there. They will call it an accident."

Steve mumbles, "I wish you could come with me," and her hard expression softens slightly. She cups his face. They'll have to be inconspicuous traveling to the shore, and having a woman along who doesn't know how to fight would only bring trouble - though he knows Peggy is stronger than he is. She is braver. She is more clever. He swallows. "I want to fight, but…"

"I know," she says. And he knows she does. "We should go, before he finds us in here. We have a lot to do before you go."

He sighs, allowing himself to feel overwhelmed for a moment, and then nods grimly, resolute. "Let's get to it then."


	4. a finding

Several saddlebags rest in the middle of Steve's room, dark leather that belies how expensive it really is with clothes spilling out of the thick pockets; he frowns at them with his arms folded against his chest.

"You can't take that much," says Sam beside him, sounding a cross between exasperated and amused. "This is a secret mission, Steve. It's covert. It's supposed to be _fast_."

"I _know_ ," he says, annoyed. "But how the hell are we supposed to have enough food and clothing for it all? Peggy said it might take us four weeks to get there."

"If nothing goes wrong," says Sam. "Which literally never happens to us."

"Whose fault is that?" he says irritably.

"Your Majesty must be having sleeping problems."

Steve just glares, Sam only calls him _Your Majesty_ when he's being an asshole - and then whips around as the door to his room starts to open. "Peggy?" he asks, the only one who would dare to come in without knocking.

Only it's not Peggy. It's Bucky. And his eyebrows shoot up as soon as he sees the mess on the floor, all the clothes strewn about, the food that's been gathered together. "I'm here to switch out for Sam. Are you… planning a trip?"

" _No_ ," says Steve, and instantly feels like an idiot. "Sam doesn't need relief right now. Please leave."

Bucky looks back and forth between the two of them, unmoving. It looks for a second like he might listen, his eyebrows drawing together slowly, and then his eyes land on Steve's thin golden circlet laying on top of one of the saddlebags and his mouth firms into a frown. Steve feels his whole body tighten as Bucky steps further into the room and closes the door behind him. "Your Highness," he says. "Steve. If you are planning something… furtive, I must know about it. I've sworn to protect you."

Steve stands ramrod straight, shoulders tense, hands clenched. He wants to look over at Sam, wants Peggy to come by and tell him what to do about this now, but nothing arises. "I'm not planning anything."

Bucky's mouth flattens out more. "I know you have no reason to trust me yet, I haven't been able to show you that my word is my life or that I really would die for you; what can I do to earn your trust?"

Now Steve does glance at Sam, who shrugs helplessly. He lifts a hand, scrubbing at his face. "Barnes, it's not meant to offend your bloody honor or word -"

Bucky's eyes narrow. "You're going to fight," he accuses. "Is that it? You want to see the glory of it? You want to be someone's hero?"

"Barnes," says Sam in a warning voice.

"And you're planning on just going with him alone?" asks Bucky, nodding to Sam. "Steve, pardon me, but that is complete horse shit. Both of you will die, quickly and without even a chance to piss yourself. I cannot, sir, it is my duty to protect you. And yours too," he says to Sam. "I cannot believe -"

"Enough," says Steve, his voice ringing with command. Both men flinch. It is not often Steve rises to the fullness of his position, but he has been taught all his life that he is to rule, he has been taught that his blood is stronger than others, that when he bleeds it is more precious, and there is a thread of strength in his voice that does not match the thin arms and weak lungs. The way he stands screams that he is a prince and that he will be obeyed, whether or not his choice is the wisest. His jaw is taut, blue eyes hot. "You will not question me or my intentions. You do not speak to _me_ in any such manner. If I want to go, I will go, and you will say nothing."

He had walked towards Bucky as he spoke and now, though Bucky stands nearly a foot taller than him, he looks smaller for once, cowed.

"You have not yet earned anything from me," says Steve in a low voice. "If I brought you along and you failed me, both Sam and I would die."

"I would never," says Bucky. He sounds fervent and, to Steve's ears, honest. "I would die first."

He is only a few years older than Steve, but he has done more and been more places than Steve has. He knows more about the land, more about real living, he is just as much of a man as Steve is. Already the flood of royalty he'd felt before is fading. Why should Bucky die for him? He hardly knows him.

"Would you like to know what we're doing, Barnes?"

"I would, Highness."

Blue eyes so intense on Steve's, focused only on him - this man could kill Steve, could be working for Pierce, but there's something strong and steady about him that pleads the opposite. He swore fealty to Steve in his castle's throne room. He knelt before him. He offered himself to Steve's bed. Steve stares at him for a moment and then sighs and puts his back to the man. "Tell him," he says to Sam. And Sam tells him.

"Fuck," says Bucky.

Steve stands by the window, trying not to feel much of anything. "That's right."

"It's real?"

"It's real."

"Well…" Bucky looks like he's trying to understand it, and Steve feels almost sorry for dragging him so quickly into the ever-shifting world of politics. Sam at least grew up around this; he knows to always expect backstabbing and betrayal. Bucky just looks floored. Then, suddenly, calculating. "This isn't all you need."

"What are we missing?" asks Steve, who feels like they're missing a whole lot.

"Weapons," says Bucky.

Sam and Steve both stare down at their little mess.

"Hm," says Steve.

"I have my sword," offers Sam. "So do you, Barnes."

"We need more than that," says Bucky. "Let's go to the armory now, Steve."

"Now?"

"Aren't we leaving in four days?"

"Yes."

"Then let's not waste time," he says, and Steve has to agree.

"Would you like me to come?" Sam asks.

"Sleep," Steve says. Sam nods, but they both know that he probably won't, at least for a few hours - too busy worrying and scheming and going over maps to actually take his time off while Bucky takes over.

"And you can't bring that," Bucky adds, nodding his head to the glittering piece of metal that had caught his eye in the first place. Steve steps to it and picks it up, his throat suddenly feeling full. It's light in his hands, meant for everyday use as opposed to the heavy crowns his parents wore for public events, but he's never gone a day without touching it at least once. It reminds him of the burden of his position, how much it means to everyone around him that he wears this. Of course he can't bring this; it was thrown on top just as haphazardly as all the rest of his possessions.

"I wasn't," he says, his hands tightening around the gold. "I did it without thinking."

"It can't come," says Bucky, but even he seems to understand why Steve still hesitates. After a moment, Steve takes it to his chest of drawers and sets it aside. He will not be a prince for this. He will just be a man.

They walk towards the armory in silence, through the cold corridors, past the empty rooms. They're halfway there when Bucky clears his throat, and, drawn out of his own quiet thoughts, Steve thinks he knows what's coming.

"If they catch us," he says, "on the way out. What will happen?"

Steve sweeps his blond hair aside, then straightens it again, frowning. "You'll be safe; they won't hurt you."

"Won't they?" he asks. Bucky's looking straight ahead, eyes forward, like he can't bear to meet Steve's eyes just now. There's a layer of beard growing on him that means he hasn't shaved in a while; Steve wonders how it will look after weeks on the run. If Bucky ever expected his life to be this way. "Imagine if Sam and I were deemed incapable of keeping you safe and replaced with Pierce's men?"

"I won't allow it."

"He'll lock you in your room," Bucky observes. "And kill you with a thief through the window at night while Sam and I rot in the dungeons. Our wrists will bleed red from the chafing of the irons."

"You won't rot. If they do manage to take you away from me, it'll be straight to the gallows."

"Cheery," he says. "Different route. Let's say we somehow get away. How long have you lived in the wilderness?"

Steve stays silent.

"How long have you been without servants?" asks Bucky. "Baths? Fresh clothes? Cooked meat? A bed?"

Steve sort of wants to shove Bucky into the wall. "You think I can't handle being out there," he says flatly.

"It's not that I underestimate you," he insists, "but isn't this just a little bit reckless? We're not going to anyone for help, we're not thinking through every angle much less the obvious ones, and once we're out there, we'll have no more resources. You won't be able to rely on being a prince to get what you want -"

Steve whirls on him, eyes flashing, and Bucky immediately backs away.

"That's not what I meant," he says. "But you can't act like it hasn't been easy for you here. It's December. It's only going to get colder out there, and no servants to build you a fire."

"Are you trying to convince me not to go?" he demands. "Did you not hear what Sam had to say about this? We're not going to have an adventure or to play pretend at knights - my father's life is at stake. _My_ life is stake. Would you prefer me to wait and see how long it takes poison to work through my system? We can take bets, if you wish," he finishes caustically.

They stare at each other.

After a beat of silence, Steve's eyes narrow. "Just as I thought," he says, turning to continue on.

Bucky follows without a word. The armory has been just as raided as the stables have, and what's left is either out of date or somewhat damaged. There's a fine sheet of dust on the things in the very far corner, which Steve plans to avoid with his lungs being the way they are, but other than that he doesn't know where to start.

"What were you thinking?" he asks gruffly, not looking over at the other man.

"Knives, daggers," says Bucky, still persistently avoiding Steve's gaze. "Things we can conceal easily and don't weigh a lot." He hesitates and then adds, "And things you can use just as well as Sam or me."

Steve has to allow him this - he is persistently baldfaced, despite the risk of repeatedly offending Steve or stepping too far. It has only been a week and already Bucky Barnes treats him like Sam does, more of an equal than a superior, more of a friend than a prince. Begrudgingly, he picks up a few sheathed daggers, pulling them out to examine the old blades. The handles are carelessly encrusted with jewels, obviously more for decoration than real use.

"Should they be sharpened?" he asks.

"Probably," Bucky says, and curses lowly. "How are we possibly going to get it all done in such short time…"

Steve wanders away even as he keeps muttering to himself, examining items here and there with a curious eye. After it had been deemed early on with his sicknesses that he would never amount to a proper warrior, Steve had been steered towards gentler areas of etiquette. He'd been taught dancing, languages, writing, and history. He'd been given a longing for other cultures and different areas of the world - while secretly, underneath it all, he'd maintained the same yearning for power and strength he'd always had.

Something catches his eye in the very back of the room, and he winds through the shelves and tables to where a wool blanket is tossed over a selection of items. His hand hovers it for a moment, already picturing the set of sneezes and coughs he'll have to face if he whips it off, and then he pulls it away.

His eyes water briefly, his throat feels immediately itchy, but he's too interested in what's underneath to notice.

"What've you got?" asks Bucky behind him, and Steve turns sideways so he can see. "Oh. Just leave that."

"What, why?" He reaches for the circular shield, sweeping away the top layer of dust with little swipes of his hand; underneath, the metal gleams bright. He tugs at it, surprised by the heft it has to it, and after a moment's struggle manages to get it rolling out towards him. It tilts back and forth and nearly falls and then he sees the other side of it - a simple star etched into the middle of the shield, surrounded by circles of red with one quick circle of blue at the very center. He can picture himself behind it, anonymous behind the symbol, not the crest of his house or the crest of anyone else's. A crest for the masses, perhaps. Not royalty, but something else entirely. "I like this."

Bucky's eyebrows raise, which Steve knows means _Can you lift it?_

"I don't know how to fight," he says, pulling the shield closer to him so that it leans heavy against his knees. God, but it's big. Nearly half his height it feels like. "But you don't really need to know how to use a shield, do you?"

Bucky's eyebrows go up even higher.

"Well, you can teach me, can't you?" Steve asks impatiently. "Once we get far enough along?"

"Better find a smaller version of it to train with," says Bucky, "until you can stand that one's weight. It's the only way you'll be able to build up muscle."

Which, unfortunately, makes sense. The idea of searching for a weaker version of what he actually wants puts a sour taste in his mouth, but he scrounges around, shifting through beaten wooden shields before suddenly they both freeze at the sounds of footsteps nearing the armory.

"Are we supposed to be in here?" whispers Bucky, clutching a magnificently large bow.

"It'll be suspicious," says Steve just as hushed, his mind racing. "They'll wonder - oh - quick," and he darts over a rolled up bundle, unsure of what he's going to do until suddenly he's right in Bucky's space, the man startled and wide-eyed as the footsteps slow outside of the armory and Steve kisses him.

It's not his first kiss: that would go to Peggy, childishly sharing close-mouthed pecks in their secret loft together. And it's not his first kiss with a man either, as there were moments of far too much wine and laughter and sloppiness as he stretched up to meet Sam's mouth (so maybe it wasn't too far off for Bucky to believe Steve was romantic with his guards). But it's been a long time since either of those happened, and Steve doesn't offer himself out easily, not willing to be simply a medal people wear around their necks. He feels Bucky stiffen, lips frozen under Steve's, and almost gives up.

He starts to retreat and the kiss almost ends - and then Bucky's hand strokes the side of Steve's face, his mouth relaxes against Steve's. It's soft, gentle, and then his hand creeps up into Steve's hair and _tightens_ , pulling the loose strands taut, and Steve gasps into his mouth, surging up. Abruptly they're kissing hot and messy, Bucky's tongue in his mouth, this is nothing at all like the innocent kisses he's been a part of before. Bucky draws Steve's lower lip into his mouth, sucking down hard, and Steve makes a strange sort of whimper groan that he's never made before, hearing a low response from Bucky in return. He's thinks of the bed and the offer and the fact that maybe this is all real for Bucky after all when he hears someone clear their throat behind him and realizes he never heard the door open.

They separate fast, breathing hard, and Steve turns, smoothing down his doublet with a furious blush rising on his face.

And it's Brock.

"Cousin," says Steve, even more embarrassed now. His hands fidget - to his hair, rumpled from Bucky's hand in it, then away, trying to act calm. "What are you doing in here?"

"Came to pick up a knife I can practice throwing…" He sounds amused. "What are you in here for?"

"I, ah," he turns halfway to Bucky, then back, his hand in his hair again before he can even register the motion, this time mussing it back up. "Just -"

"I see," says Brock, his eyes laughing. "You and your new guard are getting on just fine. Better than fine, I'd say."

Steve can feel Bucky's presence behind him like he's on fire, just a step away. "We'll leave."

"No, no," says Brock. He waves an arm, still smirking as he backs away. "Keep the room. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't…" says Steve, and then Brock gives them one last knowing look before leaving. Steve stands there for a moment, feeling hot, feeling sweaty, and turns around.

Bucky's smiling broadly. "Good distraction method," he says. His eyebrow, just one, quirks thoughtfully. "Maybe you're not as bad at this as I thought, Highness." He claps a hand on Steve's shoulder and the motion feels more than platonic, it feels like purposeful distancing. "Now, to find a lighter shield for you. Is there anyone you know that can make us one in three days?"

Steve studies him, searching for something underneath, a thread of the tension and want from moments earlier - and then sighs, all of it rushing out of him at once. "There might be someone," he says.


	5. a running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took only 10,000 words for them to leave the castle…...not bad……..

They leave in the dead of night, like robbers, like thieves, creeping out where no one can see them. The horses were taken out of the castle walls and tied to trees during the day when it was less conspicuous, and now the three men throw the saddlebags over their shoulders and sneak through the tunnels leading out, not one of them speaking.

If they're caught -

Steve tries not to think of it. Already his boots wear on his feet uncomfortably; the dark tunic he wears, one of Sam's so that he won't stand out, is far too large, belted tight at his waist but billowing out elsewhere. He doesn't complain; he grits his teeth instead. He knows Bucky will just be waiting for him to crack and admit this is foolhardy of them.

Getting to the horses takes nearly an hour and his back is dripping with sweat by the time they reach them; he feels the weight of the bags digging into his shoulder and sees Sam and Bucky both glancing at him with silent concern. He hates it. The fact that he's in the middle but Bucky behind is purposely having to slow down to stay back, the fact that moving is so much more difficult for him at night like this, in the dark where his eyes barely work - he hates it. He makes it to the horses through sheer grit and willpower alone and when he's finally there, both men force him to stop to catch his breath and drink a long draught of water.

"Okay," he says when things feel steadier. "Okay. Can we just move?"

"Wait," says Sam, and then lets out a piercing whistle. They stand there for a moment before a blot of darkness swoops down from the sky and lands on Sam's outstretched arm, giant wings flaring back to halt its progress.

"What," says Bucky, "the hell is that."

"Redwing," says Sam. He grins, his teeth glittering white. "Best trained falcon in all of England. He'll track us overhead and warn us if there's anyone coming."

"Does he hunt?" asks Bucky, sounding impressed.

"If you ask nicely."

"Oh, I can ask very -"

"Can we _please_ just move?" cuts in Steve, trying his best not to glower. Sam and Bucky look at each other; when did they start doing that? What are they looking at each other for? It just makes Steve's eyebrows tug down harder, his glare more pronounced.

"Can he take a message?" asks Bucky as they start off again. "It would be a hell of a lot faster than this."

"And risk it getting intercepted?" says Sam. His horse is starting and stopping with little jerks, unhappily eyeing the bird still riding on Sam's arm, and after a moment the knight laughs and sends Redwing up into the air with a thrust of his arm. Sam's horse only ever allowed him on his back - _only_ him. "Trust me, I've thought of it. But even Redwing isn't a guarantee on something as crucial as that. Knowing Pierce, every bird from here to the coast is about to be shot down in the king's name."

Bucky frowns.

"You think he'd go to such lengths?"

"My uncle," says Steve shortly, "would kill any man, much less any fowl, if it means getting what he wants."

He's been trying to ignore to what it really means for him, that his own relation would plot something like this. Not just Steve's death, but his father's death as well - the man who stood over Alexander and his sister's wedding, who laughed and talked with him at the high table every meal, and every time Steve thinks about it makes his chest clench hard at how his father will look when they tell him the truth. The treachery of it.

"He would kill his own blood," he says, more to himself than to anyone else though he knows they're both listening. "He would do anything. The throne is too appealing."

"There are many men who do such things for less," says Bucky. Then, more softly, "Death chases us all."

Steve stays silent.

Riding is easier than walking, than speaking. The horses react slowly at first, roused from their sleep, unwilling to trot until the tense atmosphere finally seems to infect them. This time Steve leads the pack - he does it on purpose, maybe, to prove a point, to prove that he can, and the thought of Sam and Bucky sharing another look together back there only makes him press Amour on harder until both of them are lathered and dripping. There's a slow burn between his thighs gaining strength over the last few hours from the way he clenches hard around her. His hands shiver uncontrollably. When he draws her up, it's only to let Sam and Bucky catch up and to let her stop panting so hard.

There's no time to lag. There's no time at all. He thinks of his uncle waking up to find him gone, searching the whole castle, demanding that men go out _for the prince's own safety_. He thinks of poison choking his throat and sending his body into spasms that he never recovers from. Was his mother's death as innocent as everyone thought, or was that too something his uncle planned? How long has this been happening right in front of everyone? His mind is like a dog with a rat, around and around, tearing into him at turns, he is both the dog and the rat at the same time.

They ride for hours, a brutal pace. Steve's never rode this much before; he'd never even been allowed on a hunt before this. Every noise around them sounds like a hundred horses crashing after them, and his hands throb from clenching the bridle so tightly for so long. His teeth are sore from gritting them together. For miles they ride.

He doesn't realize there are tears burning his eyes until Bucky is beside him, tugging on Amour's bridle to slow her down until they're at a walk. Sam is far back, like a ghost.

"No," says Steve in a raw voice. He doesn't look over, refusing to wipe his face. "No, I don't want to slow."

"Steve," says Bucky quietly. "You'll catch chill if you don't stop pushing yourself so hard. Do you trust Sam?"

He bites his lip hard, trying to stop the feeling welling up in him. All the things he's been trying to ignore clang louder: He's ineffective as a leader, weak, unsure of how he's going to make it, he's going to die, he's going to die out here -

"Sam will not let you die," says Bucky, like he's hearing Steve's thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bucky leaning towards him, bright eyes so dark in the night. "He's been guarding you for four years now and hasn't allowed anything to happen before. He's a strong fighter, he'll keep you safe."

"What about you?" asks Steve. His voice sounds like it's dragged out of him by its hind legs.

"I…" hesitates Bucky. "I would like for you to treat me with the same trust, Highness. I meant what I said when I swore fealty."

They walk the horses for a while longer until Steve's chest feels looser and his face is dry again. "I am not unsure about either of you," he says finally. "It's me. I'm the one who cannot be trusted."

Bucky reaches out over the gap between their horses, briefly touching his shoulder before sliding down to his wrist. His fingertips rest there for a moment, soft against the delicate skin there, and then he squeezes and draws his hand away. "You have proven yourself fearless thus far."

" _Fearless_ ," he scoffs, and makes an aborted gesture towards his face. Bucky is already shaking his head.

"Fear," he says, "affects us all, even the bravest warriors on the battlefield feel it. The difference is that some men run from it and some men run with it. Did you think I felt nothing when my arm was cut off? Did you think I didn't cry for my mother?" A crooked smile touches his lips. It's the first time he's ever mentioned his missing arm, and Steve can't help but look at it now, the absence of it.

"And yet here you are," says Steve.

Bucky's smile widens. "And here I am."

It somehow makes him feel better.

After a moment, Steve says, "I did not even cry when the measles almost took me. Not once."

"Who was crying?" asks Bucky in a light voice, and then presses his horse on faster. Steve smiles at the back of Bucky's head, ducking his head down slightly.

They ride through the night and into the morning. It's the most crucial part of the journey, getting far enough away by the time they're discovered as missing that they won't be caught. They take turns walking beside the horses to give them a break, even Steve though he knows his weight doesn't truly matter to the great beast beside him, and by the time it's nearing evening again, everyone's showing signs of exhaustion.

"We make it to nightfall," Steve says wearily. "Then we stop."

Sam and Bucky only nod.

They eat apples while they ride, take turns drinking from the wine bag, and occasionally one of them nods off in the saddle. The roads they travel are purposely destitute, less traveled than the main road, which zigzags more than naught and is sometimes completely covered in brambles. Steve's head throbs in time with Amour's tired plodding. His thighs feel like they're on fire.

He holds up a hand at dusk, trying to ignore its shaking, and waits for everyone to stop before he more or less slides off his horse. The ground feels harder than he remembers - he stumbles, catching himself on Amour's saddle, and feels everyone's eyes on him.

"Is this good?" he manages. "Far enough?"

"It should be," Sam says. "They don't know for sure what direction you might have gone in, so they'll probably be covering all areas around the castle at this point - if they've even left. They might still be trying to ascertain you're not somewhere inside."

"At least some men will be out for you," Bucky says. "But if we get off road enough and don't light a fire, they have no reason to simply stumble upon us. And if they do…"

Steve swallows. He's been trying not to think of that, the idea that they might have to fight to get out of this. The shield hanging from Amour's side catches his eye, how Sam had to hold it on his back for Steve through the tunnels. He doesn't want to kill men who are simply following his uncle's orders, trying to actually protect him, the thought makes him sick. But if it comes down to saving his father's life or that - the choice is made.

They don't have tents, so they lay their bedrolls out in a collection of old leaves and drape themselves in whatever extra clothes they have. Sam takes the first watch, Redwing at his side with his head tucked under his wing. Steve falls asleep in an instant, a crashing sort of sleep with only the very tip of his nose poking out of the blankets so he can breathe. He doesn't know what Bucky was talking about - it's a better night's sleep than he's ever had, softer than any mattress he's ever laid on before.

A noise wakes him up early and he jolts up, staring as Bucky comes out of the woods with a distracted expression on his face. His gaze slides over the horses and then lands on Steve and he starts to see Steve awake and looking back.

"Where were you?" rasps Steve.

"We switched guards about an hour ago," he replies in a low voice. Sam is asleep just a few feet from Steve. "Thought I heard a noise."

"Was there something?" he mumbles. Sleep is already tugging him back down.

"There was nothing," says Bucky. "Just an animal. Feel safe, Highness. I will keep watch."

"When's it… my turn…" he says, laying his head back down, and barely hears Bucky murmuring about the next night before he's asleep again. Deep in his burrow of blankets, Steve shivers hard.

The following morning his muscles are all aching and sore, partly from riding hard for a full day and partly from the nonstop shivering of the night.

"Sleep well?" asks Bucky, who seems to give him a knowing glance.

"Perfectly fine," he answers.

Now that they're out of the first day, it feels both safer and more dangerous. Safer because if they were going to catch them early on, it would probably have happened immediately - more dangerous because the farther away they get, the more chances they have to run into unknown obstacles. Criminals and wild animals and a blizzard that drowns them in ice and snow. Anything.

"Fire tonight," says Bucky when they come to a final stop on the second day, even more weary than the day before. Today they've eaten stale bread and dried venison, but nothing seems to fill the constant hunger in Steve's belly or stop the ache in his head. Still, there's something like pride in him that underlies all the pain - he's made it through the first day. He survived, and they're that much closer to telling his father.

Steve and Sam both say, "No," at the same time.

"We're not far enough," says Steve.

"They'll see it," says Sam.

Bucky just side-eyes the both of them and waits till Sam goes off to piss before coming close to Steve, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

"What?" Steve asks, scowling preemptively.

"You need a fire," he says. "You shook so hard last night I thought you were going to wake up with no teeth. How fast do you think we can ride if you're down with a fever?"

"I'm not going to get a fever," says Steve crossly. "And I don't need a fire. I'm fine."

"I understand wanting to appear like everything's under control," says Bucky, and he's too close to Steve now, all in his face with looming concerns like a great big fussy mother hen. "But this is stupid. Do you want to reach your father or not? Should we just find a cabin somewhere and deposit you there while we ride on ahead?"

"We're not having a fire," he snaps. "That's the end of it."

"A fire's not the only way to keep warm."

He doesn't think of what Bucky might mean by that while tending to the horses, taking Amour's saddle off and rubbing her down.

"You're very good," he whispers to her, letting her nudge his hand with her nose and speak back to him quietly. "You've done so good for me. So fast. Thank you." Her mane, long and white, comes untangled before his fingers, patiently pulling all the bristles out with care.

There's something about this that makes him feel competent - being able to take care of another creature. He thinks it's what he was meant for. If he hadn't been a prince, perhaps he might have been a doctor, healing the sick and the weak. Or a professional horse trainer, teaching them to do all sorts of tricks, teaching kids to ride well. He likes that thought. He catches Bucky looking at him as he smiles to himself and turns away, embarrassed.

"I can take the first watch this time," Steve says, already jutting his chin out in defiance but they don't protest, just nod.

Sam says, "Wake me up in a few hours," then stretches out and immediately falls asleep, his quiet snores filling the area. Bucky lays awake with his hands behind his head, quiet. His jaw is highlighted in the moonlight, half of his face in shadow, and Steve thinks about drawing him like this. Vulnerable.

His hands itch to do something. It's not often he simply sits somewhere without a task; even when he was forced abed with illness, he'd learned to knit and had made everyone he cared about something to wear. Peggy still sometimes donned her scarf, the white remaining unblemished with her careful handling. Now, he can just stare at the stars, wondering at their blurry figures in the distance.

His head nods a few times and he makes himself get up, patrolling the perimeter of their camp, studying the leaves, the barren trees, the underbrush, the lack of human interference. All his life, he's been kept by other people, restrained, hands on his shoulders pulling him back. His mother when he was seven pulled him away from the other boys his age holding wooden practice swords. _You'll hurt yourself. The dust in your lungs. Let's return to the books._

Despite everything, he feels wildly free for a moment, and he grins so hard it hurts.

Then he returns to his seat against the base of a tree and it starts to get cold.

Really cold.

His muscles _ache_ cold.

God damn it.

He walks around more but he's only got one cloak and it doesn't seem to helping against the wind and the frigid temperature leaking through his skin. It hasn't snowed this year, but he thinks snow might be even better than this - this searing cold that gets right down deep in his bones and sits there. His teeth start to chatter, and if could sheer anger alone could warm him, he'd be a volcano right now.

He wakes Sam up by kicking him lightly. Sam comes to with a jerk, rolling around and then looking up at him with hazy sleep-eyes.

"My time?" he mutters, and Steve nods, trying to hide the way his arms are wrapped around himself. Sam eyes him suspiciously and then says, "Here. Take my blankets. I'm gonna walk around, I don't need them."

"S-S-Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes narrow.

"And put it next to Barnes," he says. "Body heat will help."

He can't even argue, just drags Sam's bedding miserably across to where Bucky is stone cold out, retrieving his own bedroll and laying it on top. All of it helps a little as he huddles underneath, and Steve falls into a sleep that's nothing like the night before. Maybe he should try to make himself more tired during day. He can hear every noise in the night like it's been amplified a hundred times over, and the cold. The _cold_.

He wakes up snuggled next to Bucky. His face is pressed right into the back of Bucky's neck, his right arm thrown tight over Bucky's chest, holding him to Steve with all the strength he has. Their legs are completely tangled together and somehow all the blankets have shifted around and over them to create a cocoon of warmth.

It's - unseemly, is what it is. He's wrapped like a warmth-seeking leech against one of his guards who is in no way complicit with this; Steve starts to shrink back, trying to stealthily retract his arm, except then Bucky grips his arm tightly and grumbles a little, pulling Steve closer. If he thinks too much about it, he can feel the way his waist is lined up right against Bucky's ass, the way a little rocking would give him a _lot_ of friction, how pressing himself fully to Bucky is the most appealing thing in the world to him right now. And not just because he's cold.

Which is bad.

Then, like that's not enough, suddenly Bucky seems to get tired of being tucked up against Steve and turns, sighing in his sleep as he presses Steve onto his back and half covers him, head on Steve's tiny chest and arms all over him. He's one giant breathing blanket, his body lending immediate beautiful warmth to Steve in places that have nearly gone numb. Bucky's the one clinging now, mashing his face into Steve's tunic like if he tries hard enough he can reach the skin underneath. He can't help it. He can't move. He squirms just a little so that he can press his face into Bucky's warm, soft-smelling hair, and pulls the blankets even warmer with his free hand. Let Sam see. Fucking hell.

He wonders, briefly, if Bucky was suggesting this earlier for himself or for Steve - and then decides that he simply doesn't care and turns his face towards Bucky, a tiny breath escaping him as his entire body relaxes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally debated with myself for ten minutes whether or not Sam should actually have Redwing or not but everyone deserves a pal, right??


	6. a lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its finals week, so naturally i decided to finally update this.
> 
> if writing a fight scene isn’t bad enough, turns out writing someone teaching someone else how to fight is an absolute nightmare. also, in this chapter, i forgot that Bucky only had one hand three separate times.

Steve wakes up early enough to extract himself from under Bucky without him noticing it, but it's not fast enough to prevent Sam from seeing. He smirks at Steve when they're all awake and getting ready for the day and waits till Bucky is distracted to leans in and whisper, "Would you like me to cuddle with you too, Highness? I can't promise to be quite as soft, but I can try."

Steve frowns at him and tries to ignore the way his cheeks are growing hot. "You keep to yourself, Wilson," he orders, and turns away to Sam's repressed laughter.

Their third day of riding has lost some of the excitement and adrenaline from the first two days. It feels less and less like a high-thrill chase and more like a tiring, thigh-hurting, numbing monotony; the same collection of trees stretches on for miles and miles before them like they're walking in circles instead of halfway across the bloody country. His mind wanders aimlessly, bored like nothing he's ever felt before.

Then an idea strikes him.

"Buck," he says, nudging Amour faster so that she's trotting next to Bucky's steed Black Mare. "I've had a thought."

"A royal thought?" asks Bucky who still looks soft and sleepy in the grey morning air. Steve's already learned that the man is not ready for at least an hour after waking; if Steve wasn't nobility, he thinks maybe he'd be seeing a far more surly version than this one. "From your royal head? Let me prepare myself, hold on."

Steve's lips curl up. "Take your time."

Bucky actually does take a moment, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes before he blinks and turns to Steve. "Okay."

He takes a deep breath. "I would like for you to teach me to fight."

Bucky blinks again, owlish. Then he says, "No."

"No?" asks Steve. "What do you mean?"

"I mean no," says Bucky. "I don't want to."

"You don't - want to?"

Bucky frowns.

"You don't get a choice," says Steve, still sounding astounded. He'd thought they'd agreed to this in the armory, surrounded by weapons and swords and kisses. "I'm the prince. I decide." Now his tiny shoulders straighten out, firming up, and his voice comes out more regal. "You will teach me to fight." He thinks he sees Bucky visibly react to the change in his voice, his eyes going glassy again for a second before he shakes his head, eyes clearing.

"Ask Sam."

"I don't want Sam," says Steve, who knows that Sam would say no just as easily and would be even more difficult to order around. Also Bucky's fight with Brock is still ringing in his head. "I want you. Why are saying no?"

"I'm tired," says Bucky shortly. "We switch off half a night shift every other night and we ride all day. Working in the evenings will just add to our weariness. What if we come upon an attack?"

"If we come upon an attack, it'd be better for me to be able to defend myself rather than just hide in the woods," he argues. When Bucky remains silent, Steve frowns, trying to think around it. "Sam," he says after a moment, twisting around to look back at the yawning man. "I think we should get rid of the night watch."

Sam's eyebrows climb up. "Pardon?"

"It's not doing us any good," he says. "If we all get a full night's rest then we'll be able to make better time the next day, and if someone does actually come along us in the night, how is one alert person going to help anyway?"

He doesn't like the smile that suddenly appears on Sam's face. "Someone likes their sleep, is that it?" Then, so low Steve almost misses it, "Or someone _else's_ sleep."

Steve turns his head back to the front and stares hard ahead. Then glances back at Bucky. "No watch at night," he says. "Sleep as much as you want. What's your excuse now?"

"Prince Steve," says Bucky, holding each word in between his teeth. "If I injure you teaching you to fight, what do you think we'll do? Run to the nearest healer? And where do you think the nearest healer is located?"

"We can face that problem if it comes," he says. "Just the basics. I just, at least the shield? You wield the sword, I use the shield to block? Do you think the problem lies in my strength?"

"Steve," says Bucky. He sighs.

"You think I can't handle it?" he demands. "The only way I will ever be able to do more is if I try now, when it's difficult. This is not your choice to make, it's mine. It's my safety, it's my life. It's my fight. I will no longer sit idly by when there is a chance I can one day help people." His voice rings out with finality, and the expression on Bucky's face finally, finally speaks defeat.

"If it will help, I can offer you something in return," Steve says to weaken the blow. He thinks Bucky might be unwilling to take anything before he says, "Like what?" and now Steve has to think again. "I can… I speak four languages. Latin, French, German, bits of Italian. I know all the history of the realm. I know how to paint." None of these seem to interest Bucky and he feels himself fumbling, trying to make himself appealing. It's less about a trade now and more about sheer pride. All his talents felt soft and worthless out here. "I know how to play the lute, how to dance, how to stitch a neat row -"

"Wait," says Bucky.

There's a silence.

"I would like you to…" Bucky seems to be straining for the words. He swallows, then, "I would like you to teach me to dance."

"Oh," says Steve, surprised. Out of all the things he listed, he thought that would be the least appealing. Well, other than the lute playing. "What kind of dancing?"

"Ah… all kinds."

"You don't know how to dance?"

Bucky pointedly keeps his head aimed forward, his mouth unmoving for a moment. "There weren't many opportunities available before."

Which is funny, because this is the first time where dancing isn't being forced on Steve at every moment. He huffs a little. "We'll have no music. Unless, Sam…?" He stretches back around again and sees an unimpressed look on Sam's face.

"Would you like me to whittle an instrument out of a tree or produce it straight from my ass the old-fashioned way?"

"No music," Steve confirms.

"That's okay," says Bucky. "You can just teach me the steps. You're planning for when we reach the coast; I'm planning for the day all of this is over for good. Then you can throw us all a large celebration feast to make up for the one we missed and I can dance with all the ladies there who secretly want to dance with you but are too shy."

Steve snorts. Bucky's apparently completely woken up now - normally he reserves the mornings for sentences for seven words or less. "That'll be the day to look forward to," he says. "I'll loan you a doublet to wear, if you wish. I have a blue that just matches your eyes."

"Very kind of you, Your Grace," says Bucky, and that he doesn't mention that they're not nearly the same size makes Steve smile and urge Amour on, in high spirits once again.

* * *

 

"I want to practice with the real one," Steve protests when Bucky makes him use the wooden, lighter shield. "It's the only way I'll ever be able to hold it."

"Not if you strain a muscle holding it on your first night," says Bucky calmly, adjusting Steve's stance with one firm hand. "Like this. It's has to be part of you, the way you move, every action you make. You have to treat it like it's now a part of your body and if they take it, they'll take you with it."

His arm was already feeling the weight of the wooden shield, but like hell Steve was going to mention it. "Am I standing right?"

"Yes," says Bucky. His eyes slide down Steve's form, lingering, before he meets Steve's eyes again. "Good. Now take it off."

"Take it off?" he says. "I just put it on."

Sam crows, "Take it off, Rogers! Strip down!" and when they both look at him, occupies himself feeding Redwing bits of dried meat from his hand.

"I don't understand," says Steve, frustrated. "I thought the whole point tonight was to teach me how to defend myself using the shield."

"You can barely _hold_ the shield," says Bucky. "First you should know how to defend yourself just using your own body. When you can manage that, then we add in weapons to the mix."

He perks up slightly. "Weapons?"

"A shield is a weapon just like anything else."

Steve frowns. "Not as good as a sword."

"One track mind," mutters Bucky. He's almost rolling his eyes, which makes Steve almost do it in return. "Are you going to argue with everything I tell you to do, or are you going to trust that maybe there's a reason I went from farmboy to knight in two years? And then lost my strong arm and still managed to rise to Kingsguard in another two years?"

Steve stares at him mutinously for another moment and then takes the shield off his arm and throws it to the side. He lifts his fists, and Bucky sighs. " _What?_ " says Steve. "Not even this? What the hell am I supposed to be doing then?"

Bucky says, "Would you like a demonstration?" and Steve says, "You're terrible at teaching," and then Bucky says, "Sam, get up here."

Steve and Sam switch places, both parties equally reluctant as Steve sits down on Sam's bedroll by Redwing and Sam stands unhappily across from Bucky. The giant falcon ruffles its wings and glares at Steve through one eye.

"Can you teach me how to fight?" Steve asks the bird.

"Are you watching, Steve?" says Bucky.

Steve actually does roll his eyes this time. "Yes."

"Watch me, not Sam. Try to hit me," Bucky says to Sam. "As hard as you'd like, it doesn't matter."

Sam gives him a resigned look and then transfers the look over to Steve, his mouth pulled flat with disapproval. "This is just going to end up with me being highly misused," he says. "I'm a Kingsguard, not a straw dummy for beating. _I_ don't need training."

"Then you shouldn't have a problem hitting me," says Bucky, and Steve chokes on unexpected laughter.

Sam's expression deepens into a scowl. "Fine. Ready yourself, Barnes."

Bucky nods, lifts his chin up, settles himself into a position that Steve immediately tries to commit to memory. They're both studying each other intently, tension forming between them, and Steve settles back on his elbows to watch. There's a deep woods smell that he's already become familiar with, and the sun is quickly being swallowed by the edge of the forest. They're illuminated in the warm green glow of the dying sunlight coming through the leaves, and it makes Steve tilt his head back and stare through his lashes. Bucky, his body thrumming like a struck chord; Sam, his body lean with strength. If Steve listens closely, he can almost hear their quick rabbit breathing, even with his bad ear.

Then Sam strikes out and Bucky dodges. Sam aims for one side then the other, gritting his teeth with frustration as Bucky moves with him, always one step ahead.

It's how he won his fight with Brock, Steve realizes. Bucky's eyes are sharp and focused, zeroed in on Sam's body. Not Sam's face - not Sam's gaze, which would be Steve's natural inclination. Sam throws himself into it, out of breath already as he tries to catch Bucky's side with a kick. Bucky darts out of the way for that one too and it pushes Sam off-balanced; he nearly falls and Bucky's hand is right there around his throat, his whole weight thrown into it as he picks Sam up by the throat and slams him to the dirt.

Steve's breathless, his eyes wide, heart racing, sitting up, and he thinks he might understand it a little better.

"Again," says Bucky, standing.

Sam rubs his throat, wincing, and then gets to his feet with a glower. "Yeah. Again."

This time, Bucky circles Sam constantly, weaving around him until even Steve is dizzy on the ground a few feet away. He's at Sam's back and then at Sam's front, nearly at Sam's side before backing away again, faster than lightning. They're drenched in sweat despite the freezing air when Sam finally gets a hit on Bucky's side - and then Bucky grasps Sam's arm, forearm to forearm, and uses his own momentum to flip Sam over his shoulder so that Sam lands, gasping, on his back on the dirt once more.

"Wow," Steve says. "Sam, you're very awful. Who qualified for you for my guard?"

"Please shut up," groans Sam as he rolls over and pushes himself to his knees. His arms are trembling slightly. "Your Highness."

"Adding 'Your Highness' after it doesn't make it any better."

"You're good," Sam says to Bucky, accepting his hand to pull him up. "I see what you're trying to show him, and I think it's good."

The corner of Bucky's mouth goes up just barely. "So," he says. "Who's not that terrible of a teacher after all?"

"Just wait for the dancing lessons," Sam mutters as he limps back over to Redwing, passing Steve going the other way. "You'll see who's a bloody rotten instructor after that."

"You want me to dodge," Steve says. He stands in front of Bucky, looking up at him, feeling aware of all his body. "Then use my opponent's weight against me."

"There's nothing wrong at all with being smaller than who you're fighting," Bucky says. "Fighting is about muscle memory and being clever. If you can do those two things, then you might win. And more importantly, you might survive."

"Where does the shield play into it?"

"Beat me once, and I'll teach you to use the shield."

"And let me guess," says Steve, lifting his eyebrows. "You're not going to let me fight you tonight."

Bucky laughs at that, he actually laughs, which Steve doesn't think he's heard this entire time. It makes a quick warm feeling ring through him, his body a belltower and Bucky's laugh the rope that tugs and tugs. He's got a flush already on his face and shifts, putting his back more to Sam so the other knight can't see. "No," says Bucky, still smiling. "Not tonight. Tonight I will show you a series of poses to put your body through, and when you can shift between each one without hesitation, then we will try sparring together."

"This is going to take ruddy years to learn," says Steve, eyes narrowing as Bucky comes up behind him and starts moving him into position. "We're supposed to be there in a matter of weeks, Barnes, please try to hurry this along."

"You cannot hurry perfection," Bucky says, and slides his hand up Steve's arm slowly to tug it up into the air. He shows Steve fiffteen different positions, moving his body from all spread out to folded up tight, arms high and then crouching low, and tells him to run through it one minute at a time, transitioning from movement to movement slowly and purposely. "Do it when you wake up and before you go to sleep. Do it before you eat each meal."

"And before I take a piss too?" Steve inquires innocently.

Bucky's mouth twitches.

"Now," he says. "It's your turn."

"Right," says Steve, stepping back and considering the situation for a moment. He hadn't thought of what to do about Bucky's missing arm - but when it comes right down to it, dancing is far more about footwork than what his upper body might be doing. "I'll play the male part for the first time so you can get an understanding of how it works, then I'll teach you the steps and you can lead me instead. This is the most popular - the Basse."

It's awkward starting the dance without any music, with just Sam's low mutterings to his pet bird and the sound of their breathing; Steve feels all too aware of Bucky's hand in his, lifted between them as they face the woods. They both bow to the imaginary king then to each other, then slowly walk forward. He imagines the music is the gentle settling of the forest around them, the shifts and groans of the wind in the trees. He imagines he's wearing the rich robe he normally would, that Bucky has grown up knowing this dance, that there are crowds around them. He imagines Bucky on his bed and tries to clear his head.

When they part hands to loop out and then back to each other, his hand is briefly freezing. It reminds him of the warmth from the night before, Bucky against him, over him. Is that going to happen every night? They come to face each other, staring at each other only for a moment before Steve lifts their arms, linked together again, and guides Bucky in a slow circling with their faces turned towards each other.

He swallows at the way their clothes brush against each other and lets go of Bucky's hand. Backs to one another, Steve murmurs, "Now bow again," and sinks down low before ordering, "Turn to me," and takes Bucky's hand again.

When he looks up, Bucky is staring at him with something in his eyes, quiet and intense, and Steve pauses for just a moment, his face tilted up. Court dances aren't meant for intimacy in the broad sense; they're meant as shallow entertainment and as an excuse for the smallest of touches, which he supposes can be its own form of charged intimacy. When everyone's dancing, dresses swirling, robes swishing, when the crowds are high and the music is loud, the single contact of skin to skin, fingers sliding together, feels greater than anything else.

He hasn't breathed in a long time, but he only notices when Bucky mouths the word, " _Exhale_ ," and all of it rushes out of him fast.

"I'm sorry," he says, stepping away and using the brief reprieval to wipe his damp hand against his breeches. "I've lost count of where we are. Let's start again," and Bucky nods, his expression unreadable. All he can feel is grateful that Sam didn't seem to notice the odd little hiccup. Perhaps he really is a worse teacher.

That night, Steve lies awake with his bedding to himself, three feet of space between his bedroll and Bucky's. He'd laid his down first and then went off to the side to practice the positions Bucky had shown him, and when he looked back, Bucky had laid his down with that careful sliver of space visible.

It makes something in Steve's chest ache.

But no matter. Bucky was the one to offer shared warmth in the first place - it's in his right to retract the offer all the same. It isn't like he was purposely putting his bedroll out to see how Bucky would react to it. He's a sworn prince and heir to the throne. He doesn't need to play absurd games with men who don't matter.

He tells himself this all while laying down and pulling the blankets as tightly as they will go, continuing this mantra of thought as he rolls onto his side with his back to Bucky and closes his eyes. Last night had obviously happened without Bucky's permission. It shouldn't happen again.

He buries the unwanted feeling deep inside and tucks his face against the folded up shirt he uses as a pillow, curling up like a little kitten.

It feels like only moments later when a touch against his shoulder makes him rise out of the half-asleep fog he's in, turning his head to see Bucky moving closer, pulling Steve back against his chest. They're snug together in only a second, and then Bucky's hot breath washes against his ear as he whispers, "You were shivering, Highness. Forgive me for noticing."

"It's fine," he mutters, turning his face away again even as his body presses back into the welcome heat. "I can handle it."

Bucky laughs quietly in his ear, and he's so big and _warm_ , his arm coming to wrap around Steve to hold him close. It feels like when they were dancing but softer, more gentle. More purposeful, too. "How will you learn to fight if you're tired from the cold? Besides, _I_ was cold, even if you are too proud to admit it."

"Not too proud," he mumbles, and slowly feels his body relax into Bucky's hold. It is easier than learning to fight, easier than teaching to dance - he can feel Bucky's arm, strong and firm, feel the way his deep breathing makes his chest move against Steve's back. Riding all day, teaching in the evenings, sleeping with this man's warmth pressed to him. He falls asleep to the sound of Bucky's breathing.


End file.
